Losing Laura
by CMemlovr
Summary: There are times when Laura finds it difficult to separate herself from the President. A companion to 'Becoming Laura', but can stand alone; a series of snapshots that frame Laura's transition from civilian Laura to President Roslin. Takes place during: season 1 and season 3 (New Caprica and Post-New Caprica), mostly.


"Commander Adama," her voice is silken, and Adama thinks to himself that she will prove both powerful and dangerous in time. For now, though, Roslin carries an edge of uncertainty in the way she holds herself, and Adama knows that it is because she isn't completely comfortable in her new role.

"Madame President," he replies, his voice polite and respectful, but completely distant.

She seems to sense his polite respect, for her stature seems to change – she carries herself higher, and her eyes harden, allowing the professional mask to slide into place. And so, the politician emerges, and though Adama is not thrilled to see her, he can appreciate that she is taking her responsibilities seriously.

"Now that the attacks have slowed from the thirty-three minute intervals we were subjected to, it might be time to discuss our future as the leaders of humanity," she proposes, confidently but still with a slight tremor. She is obviously quite a timid person – Adama sensed that in her during their first meeting before the attacks, and had found that very quality rather attractive in her. His attraction had only strengthened when he realised that she would stand up for what she believed was right, even if – at that moment – their beliefs were not quite aligned. That attraction was now almost completely forgotten in wake of the attacks. Yet still, he felt _something_ whenever he interacted with her. She was completely different from all other women that he'd been attracted to – for one thing, the timidity that he'd found so attractive was uncharacteristic of his 'type'. And, yet. He could also appreciate that she was apparently quite a reserved individual, for a politician. From what he'd heard from Lee, she'd been grateful and appreciative of his help, but didn't make hay of it during a crisis. With enough work and steady interaction, Adama was almost certain that the pair of them would ultimately become a strong and united front for humanity.

"Agreed, Madame President," his response is typically military – sparse and respectful. Bill does not allow his expression or tone to betray any of the thoughts he might be having and attempting to suppress.

"Wonderful," she replies evenly, a professional smile gracing her lips, "in that case, would it be possible to use one of the conference rooms on Galactica?"

"Certainly," he nods, "I trust your aide will be able to find the conference room without Petty Officer Dualla's help, this time?" He hides the grin that threatens to bubble up at the sight of her somewhat sheepish expression.

"I hope so," she chuckles, recovering face quickly.

He enjoys her laugh; it sounds natural on her. Bill wonders what kind of woman the President was before politics intervened. Her laugh alone suggests someone far less suited to the machinations of a political career – it is far too musical and unrestrained compared to the usual slight huff of laughter that he has become accustomed to hearing from politicians and the Admiralty at formal gatherings. Not for the first time, Bill finds himself wondering if he and Roslin would have gotten along at all had fate not thrust them together and forced them into working in close proximity to one another. He likes to think that they would have, but can't think of any situation where he might have crossed paths with her.

At this, Adama allows himself a small smile in response, and leads the way towards the conference room in which they are to meet later in the day.

* * *

Laura's arrival on his hangar deck following the exodus is far less spectacular than any of her landings as President, but is somehow much more impressive. Watching the hatch of her raptor escort impatiently, he is aware that he is paying far too much attention to her arrival; she is, after all, still a regular civilian. He is certain, however, that her position will not last long; from what he has gathered from his people who had settled, the fleet is itching for the stability and discipline President Roslin offered the fleet. He has no doubt that she will be asked to resume her position soon, if she has not already been approached by Zarek to do so.

Bill's eyes widen perceptibly on seeing her – despite the fact that she is muddy, bruised, and bloody; is wearing an over-large sweater that seems incredibly familiar; and has matted hair that could rival a feral dog's: she looks perfect to him. Relief floods his features as he moves to offer his hand to her while she attempts to step down from the raptor. He hopes that his concern is well concealed – she is certainly alive, and for that he is thankful, but at what cost? As the sight of her sinks in, Bill wonders what it is she went through in order to make it back to him. He's seen evidence of the struggle in Saul, and knows that what he has seen probably barely scratches the surface of his friend's pain, and wonders if Laura was subjected to the same treatment, if not worse.

Helping to ease her from the raptor gently, Bill smiles warmly in greeting. Finding his hand both stable and reassuring – everything she had longed for on New Caprica – Laura smiles back, greeting him as an old friend, rather than in an official capacity.

"Laura," he breathes, so glad he has the feel of her hand in his to reassure him that her presence is not mere fantasy; she tethers him to the moment, as she has so often done before.

"Admiral Adama," she grins wonderfully, "it's good to see you again." He can tell that she is troubled – she survived the exodus and reclaimed Colonial One, but there is a reluctance to be as free with her emotions around him as he is used to. He wonders guiltily if it is not because she had thought that he had abandoned them – as he knows many in the fleet had – but realises that it is likely more to do with her recent trauma. Perhaps, as a niggling voice suggests to him, she simply doesn't consider him in the same way.

Bill chafes her hand between his, finally noticing that her fingers are icy and gripping his hand almost instinctively. "You look good, Laura," he teases gently, "mud has never looked better on you." He does not mention the blood, allowing his comment to harken back to a shared experience, instead. Kobol had seen them both become quickly coated in mud and sweat before being drenched by torrential downpours. Now, however, it is just Laura who bears the marks of experience, and Bill has to wonder about marks that may not be immediately visible.

"I'll look better after a hot shower and some fresh clothes," she replies with a small laugh. _'Good,'_ he thinks, _'she can still do that.'_ Her laugh is music to his ears; during their separation, he had longed to have a conversation with another as an equal, to hear her chiming laughter at a well-timed, or perhaps slightly inappropriate, comment. Bill had missed her.

"You're always welcome to use my quarters, if you'd like," he offers without hesitation. Then, he chuckles to himself, realising what he's implied with the offer, but not caring too much. He's missed her and the repartee that they share; his feelings for her have only grown stronger during her absence, and what was a blooming affection before their parting has developed into something decidedly headier.

"I would take you up on that," she smirks, "but then you'd have to offer it to the rest of the civilians." Laura seems to have missed the implied intimacy in Bill's offer, though he doesn't miss the flash of recognition behind her eyes at his comment. It is to her credit, he thinks, that she is able to compartmentalise her own feelings at a time like this, though he does wish that she would be more forthcoming with him. Still, he reasons, time might help to open communication between them once more. Bill can't imagine that she was particularly emotionally forthcoming with anyone in New Caprica, considering she had hardly been so before settling. Their relationship had been headed that way, at least, Bill was inclined to think so.

He bites his tongue when a retort comes to mind about only offering his quarters to his loved ones – Bill knows that to admit that now would be a mistake, and would ultimately result in her withdrawing from him completely. Well, that, and it would mean that he'd have to offer his shower to Starbuck, Anders (because of Starbuck), and Saul. The thought was not a pleasant one.

"Then at least allow me to offer you temporary quarters, until you're back in government," he insists, wanting so badly to help her in some way.

"I couldn't impose on you like that, Admiral," she replies, resorting again to his title. He wonders if this isn't a mechanism for distancing herself that she's already putting into place. "Besides, I have reclaimed a position on Colonial One permanently; it is my position in government that is now questionable." Her tone harbours no argument, and he can tell at once that she has already begun to return to her Presidential self. Perhaps their former connection might return with her reclamation of her office; Bill hopes so, as he has missed having a friend and equal.

He will definitely mourn the loss of the Laura he'd come to love on New Caprica, but he knows that she is still within the woman he has loved for some time now. He hopes to regain Miss Roslin's faith in him, so that he may be privy to Laura once more.

* * *

Concrete surrounds her, and the bright light that is constantly poised above her head has done little to quell her anxiety at being unable to see clearly without her glasses. The situation is frustrating, if only because it means that she is unable to help the resistance while restrained in Detention.

Shifting slightly to a different position, Laura almost moans in relief at having alleviated the pressure of sitting on a concrete slab for hours from one of her hips. Her joints creak in protest at the movement, but her skin and muscles seem to rejoice. Biting her lip against the onslaught of pain she is sure will rise when she tries to stretch out her incredibly cramped knees, Laura slowly attempts to encourage circulation to return to her thighs and shoulders. The pain is unlike any other, and Laura briefly wonders if this is not, in some way, the Six's revenge for what the Gina experienced aboard Pegasus.

Laura admits that she has lost some of her Presidential air since settling on New Caprica – after all, it is hardly appropriate for the schoolroom, and still less appropriate (and more difficult) to maintain in Detention. Still, there are times when she is working with the resistance that she feels herself, as Laura, slipping away, and the President returning. It is not so much the slipping on of a mask, per se, but the embodiment of a persona that is not totally unlike her, but distant enough from her true character that she can be cast off at the end of the day, like a soiled suit. It is difficult to maintain the same mindset here, when the Presidential persona takes over, as she is never truly alone. And even in moments when her persona is not required, she is more often than not maintaining another of her facades – whether that be the schoolteacher determined to make sure that all of her students are well, able, and offered stability and normalcy regardless of situation; or the quiet but emboldened face that seems to slide into place in all public areas, encouraging members of the resistance, and discouraging Cylons simultaneously. In truth, Laura hasn't felt herself in months – not since Bill's departure following the Ground Breaking Ceremony, at any rate.

When the door bangs open and a chair is placed before her, Laura doesn't even flinch. To be offered a chair is, admittedly, rare, but she is not fooled by the gesture. Where a carrot is offered, a stick will surely follow.

And, sure enough, one of the Cavils enters her cell. He struts in without care for her former position – something that Baltar, at least, had been mindful of in conversations with her. Seeing that she hasn't responded to the chair, or to any of his questions, he begins his usual routine. Pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, he sits backwards on the chair in front of her, looking down on her from underneath his sunglasses.

"Miss Roslin," he tuts, "you really should know better by now. Still, can't teach an old dog, am I right?"

Laura glares up at him in disgust, wordlessly allowing the weight of her gaze to do the talking for her.

Smiling jovially, Cavil chalks up their conversation as a lost cause before it has even really begun, and requests that one of the centurions come in to help in the endeavour. What the endeavour is, Laura never really finds out or understands.

By the end of their conference, Cavil is frustrated, the centurion is as close to boredom as a being unable to experience boredom can be, and Laura? Well, she's the only satisfied party, having smugly retained her silence for over three hours of threats against her and her people.

There had been one instance when she'd feared that her mask might break; Cavil had become increasingly frustrated as their interview had worn on, and he'd lashed out by slapping her cheek. The urge to cry out had been nearly impossible to suppress; his hand had struck her hard enough that the sound had echoed in the cell, louder than the ever-present noise of the centurion's eye. Her eyes had stung, welling with tears as the dust rising in the air mingled with the tears brewing on her bottom lids. Still, not a drop was shed, as she maintained her mask impressively, and merely glared up at him, doing her best to look unimpressed and slightly bored. It was times like these that her Presidential mask became all the more useful; Laura was buried beneath her persona so that she would remain unharmed.

Her persona had remained intact throughout, and that may have been the most irritating part of the whole 'interrogation' from Cavil's perspective. She was sure that had Cavil caught her in a moment when she was vulnerable – when she was just Laura – he might have left with more satisfaction. But, having to deal with a Presidential persona from a woman who hasn't been President for over a year is probably an experience that he will forever remember as enraging. And of that, former President Roslin is proud.

* * *

Months have passed, and the fleet finally seems to be settling back into normalcy following New Caprica. At least, that is how it seems to Tory, who has been by the President's side throughout, and has seen no major changes, barring a few incidents here and there.

The first time Tory becomes aware of President Roslin's true and renewed strength is during her exchanges with Adama with regard to the deaths occurring on Galactica. There is something in the way she carries herself these days that is familiar, but at the same time altogether different, from the manner in which she used to hold herself as President before New Caprica. She is stronger – that is certain – but there is less rigidity in her shoulders, and less care for her own image. That's not to be confused with being uncaring about her appearance; she seems more concerned than ever with her hair and the way she holds her posture, particularly before meetings with Admiral Adama. But, she is ultimately less concerned about how she is perceived by the people and the press - President Roslin has finally grown into the title and position in a way that Miss Roslin, former Secretary of Education, could never hope to do. There is something in resuming a Presidency that is rightfully hers that seems to push President Roslin into action, regardless of her public perception.

However, this change is not the result of solely President Roslin's mindset, but seems to be reinforced in a way by the Admiral's support. Tory can sense the changes in her boss following a meeting with the Admiral; her resolve and confidence seem to strengthen just through the knowledge of his support. Actual meetings with him seem to prompt a happiness in her boss that Tory had never really taken notice of until she'd heard Laura humming while doing paperwork following one of their meetings. Clearly, although President Roslin might be reluctant to admit it, Laura enjoys Admiral Adama's company, and finds strength in his faith in her. The thought is warming to Tory, who will admit that she had been worried about Laura's ability to resume the presidency following their stint on New Caprica. It wasn't so much that she had questioned Laura's ability to lead – she was certain that her boss would be able to take over her responsibilities with the same ability and level-headedness as she had before – but she had worried that Laura would not be able to resume the Presidential persona she had been building prior to the election. There had been times on New Caprica when Tory had been privy to Laura's insecurities – usually these periods would follow a spell in Detention – and had worried that the same insecurities would somehow cloud her ability to resume the Presidency confidently.

There had been one particular incident that had worried Tory for reasons altogether different from her usual political concerns. Laura had returned from Detention sporting a black eye and had been wheezing slightly. As usual, she had been mum on the subject, and had refused to discuss what might have happened to her, even hypothetically. Later that evening, though, the wheezing had only gotten worse, and she had requested that Doc. Cottle – and only Doc. Cottle – be called to her tent. She would have gone herself, but taking more than a few steps had caused her to sink into the mud breathless, weakly attempting to gather her remaining strength. Tory had had to carry her semi-conscious boss back to her tent and lay her down on the thin mattress she had been provided with on arrival in New Caprica. Thankfully, Anders had been around and able to run for Doc. Cottle, as Tory had been scared to leave Laura alone; she wasn't sure what was wrong with her former boss, but knew she needed caring for.

On his arrival, though, Tory had practically been thrown out of the tent. Concerned, Tory had waited just outside the tent's flaps and had heard Laura wheezing her way through a list of symptoms that she hadn't disclosed to her former aide. Doc. Cottle had replied gruffly, in his usual manner, but not loudly enough for Tory to be able to tell what the diagnosis was. Frustrated at being unable to do anything to help, and concerned that Laura might have caught the nasty strain of bronchitis that seemed to be circulating again, Tory began to pace in front of the tent. It seemed like hours later when Cottle emerged.

"What's the verdict, Doc?" asked Tory quietly.

"I can't discuss patient information with you, Miss Foster," he grunted, lighting his cigarette.

"But I need to be able to help her," protested Tory.

"Then you'll have to ask her," he replied, ornery as usual.

"Thanks, Doc," she sighed, semi-sarcastic in her thanks. At the very least, he had helped Laura, and that was enough.

Grunting again in reply, he made his way back to the medic-aid tent.

Tory had entered Laura's tent cautiously, not wanting to wake her if she had managed to fall asleep, but needing to keep an eye on her to make sure that she was not in any immediate danger any more. She was surprised to find Laura was still awake, though resting on her mattress.

"Tory," she smiled weakly, surprise briefly flitting across her features.

"How are you feeling, Laura?" Tory asked, her concern ebbing now that Laura's breathing seemed to have stabilised.

"Peachy," she replied dryly, raising her eyebrow. Seeing that Tory was in no mood to share her humour, she continued, "Doc. Cottle said I was having a panic attack – understandable, given the situation – but ultimately nothing to worry about," she finished reassuringly.

Tory's fears had been allayed somewhat, but now a new concern had risen. If Laura was experiencing panic attacks and anxiety – which were completely normal reactions to Detention – would she be able to handle the stresses of office ever again?

Tory was glad to say that she'd been wrong in her fear – President Roslin had never been more confident, and her anxiety seemed to have dissipated following the exodus. Still, Tory knows that gauging President Roslin's emotional state would be more difficult now; she has become far more adept at hiding her emotions behind the Presidential mask than she used to be.

* * *

She sits silently in his quarters, enjoying how cosy and personalised his space is, even in the dark. Not bothering to flip on the desk lamp, or even one of the many lampshades dotted around his quarters, she makes her way to his couch and flops down onto it wearily. To say that her day has been difficult would be an understatement; President Roslin had a hard day, but Laura's day has been _hellish_. The distinction between herself and her persona has been blurred recently – she hasn't felt like herself in a long time, and now that she knows who she is without the office, it frightens her to think that she might lose her sense of self to the office altogether.

Still, there are times when being President Roslin, rather than Laura, is a blessing.

This morning's follow-up with Cottle had been one of those times. She'd known that she would likely be receiving bad news – had known since he'd come to her tent on New Caprica. Roslin had had to lie to Tory this morning when she'd mentioned scheduling an appointment with Cottle; continuing from her 'panic attack' in New Caprica, she'd told Tory that she wanted to make sure that she hadn't actually caught anything nasty while on the surface. Tory had, of course, obliged her. Still, she had sensed something questioning in her gaze. Luckily for her, but unluckily for Tory, that questioning had been forgotten in the wake of a raptor crashing into the side of Colonial One.

Now, as she sits quietly in Bill's quarters, she is forced to confront her own thoughts and feelings in a way that she never is on Colonial One. Ruminating on her meeting with Cottle that morning is something she'd like to avoid at all costs, and yet, snippets of their interaction and conversation this morning seem to waft back to her unbidden.

" _You have to have known that this was a possibility, Madame President," Cottle shook his head warily. How he itched for a cigarette, right now._

" _I had hoped that the cure had been permanent," she replied stonily, her face betraying nothing._

 _Cottle watched her closely – usually, patients who took the news as she had would internalise to the point of distraction. He would have to contact those closest to her once the news had been shared in order to ascertain that they would also keep an eye on her. Cottle had expected that she might be this way, however, as he had become accustomed to dealing with the Office, rather than the woman. And, in this case, the news was a blow for both._

" _It was never a 100% certainty," he reminded her gently, his eyes softening at the momentary slump of her shoulders._

" _I know," she replied softly, her hands gripping the bed behind her so tightly that her knuckles had whitened with the effort._

Suppressing the urge to sob that had been choking her all day, Laura forced herself to focus on the things she loved about Bill's quarters; his model ships, his soft leather couch, the private shower, and, most of all, the man who occupied them.

It had taken her a while to admit it to herself, and longer for her to allow herself to feel it in the moments when she didn't have to be the President. She loved Bill Adama; she was surprised by it, certainly, but also a little afraid of the vulnerability it exposed in her. Laura hadn't loved so earnestly and honestly since her sisters, and now found that while she relished every thought of Bill, she couldn't let her happiness show for fear of exposing a chink in her otherwise-perfect Presidential armour.

The other side of her hellish day had, of course, been the issues with the workers on the Tylium refinery ship. At least that had been a manageable crisis, once the President had worked things out with the Trade Union. The raptor crashing into the side of her ship had added some chaos to her follow-up with Cottle this morning, which had had to be rescheduled in wake of Tory's need to have her shoulder popped back into its socket rather urgently. It had been convenient for Laura to visit Cottle on Galactica for her 'check-up' following the incident, before returning to Colonial One to help set up the office away from the crash site. On the other hand, the accident had set up her day to be one of the worst – not only had she received bad news on a personal front, but she was being pushed on the political front into dealing with an issue that was present but only seems to have gotten worse since their return from New Caprica.

Everything seems to have gotten worse since their return from that muddy wasteland.

"Madame President?" Bill's voice startles her from her thoughts – he had entered so silently, she hadn't even realised that she was no longer alone.

"Bill," she starts, before smiling warmly, "I hope you'll forgive my intrusion."

"Of course, Laura. You're always welcome here," he smiles back, sitting beside her on the worn leather couch. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

Laura stiffens slightly at his question – enough that it is noticeable to Bill, who is sensitive to changes in her body language and posture, but not enough that it would have been perceptible to anyone else.

"Not so much, no. I guess I needed a bit of a break," she fibs lightly, as she considers sharing her news with Bill. To do so would mean sharing her vulnerability, something she's not sure she wants to do when she and him work so closely together. Still, more than anyone, Bill must understand the distinction between the office and the person.

"Well, you're very welcome to stay here for as long as you'd like," he replies softly, nodding in understanding. "Can I get you anything to drink?" he asks, slowly unbuttoning the top buttons to his duty blues as he begins to relax in his own quarters.

"Some water would be great," she replies quietly, her voice muted as she actively considers her options.

"Of course," he obliges her, turning to the table of beverages to prepare two glasses of water. "You handled the situation with Tyrol and the workers' strike admirably."

"I couldn't have done it without your help," she admits, "Tyrol needed to be reminded that he is still a part of the military in order to better serve civilian needs. You did that."

"I did what was necessary to restore order to my ship," he reminds her gently, "you handled the civilian side and Baltar."

Silence falls comfortably between them as Bill returns to the couch with two glasses of water, handing one to Laura before sitting beside her once more.

"I think I'm going to need to shower just to get rid of the memory of my conversation with Baltar," grouses Laura after taking a sip of water. She places the glass down on the coffee table, her hand trembling ever so slightly. Frustrated, she attempts to control it completely so as not to alert Adama.

Noting the slight tremor in her hand, Adama watches as she sets the glass down carefully before taking her hand in his gently. "If you want to use mine, you're more than welcome to," he smiles, "though you might not find the toiletries quite to your liking."

Chuckling dryly, Laura squeezes his hand in thanks, "What? You mean to tell me that you don't stock any feminine hygiene products?"

"Something like that," he grins. There is something in her teasing that is lacking – true, she has been less of the woman he remembers from New Caprica, but that's not what he's sensing now, as he watches her beginning to relax. There is an edge to her, something that's weighing on her much more heavily than the responsibilities of her office.

Laughing, Laura leans into the couch completely, relaxing for the first time in weeks. She hasn't had the opportunity to forget her reason for being here in so long, and it's nice to lose the Presidential mask every once in a while.

After a comfortable beat of silence, Bill turns fully to Laura, taking her hand in both of his. "Why are you really here, Laura?" he asks softly.

Sobering quite abruptly, Laura lowers her eyes from Bill's; she is unwilling to meet his eyes for fear that she might reveal more of herself than she would like.

"I had some news today," she intones, and Bill senses that he is speaking now to the President, and not to Laura. Still, he doesn't let go of her hands, he wants to be able to anchor her, should she need it. And, if the expression she's attempting to smooth over is anything to go by, she will definitely need comforting, and he hopes to be there for her.

His mind begins to race at the mention of news – it is obviously nothing to do with the search for Earth, otherwise he would be privy to the news, too. That must mean that it is personal, and horrible, judging by the return of her stoic mask. He remains silent, knowing that the best way to draw information from Laura is to allow her to decide how and when to express it.

"I met with Doc. Cottle this morning," she begins, her voice shaking ever so slightly, "and…" at this, she has to stop to take a breath, finding that her chest is tightening at the thought of telling him. She really doesn't want to do this to him.

"And?" he prompts gently, his thumbs massaging gentle circles into her hand.

"It's back."

 _ **Hey guys! Thank you so much for reading this :) I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing, and that if you did, you'll leave a review! I'd also like to thank everyone who reviewed this work's companion**_ **(** **Becoming Laura) _\- I really appreciate it. :)_**


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